I, Menticide
by huggs5
Summary: Hannibal Lecter is called in to assist Will Graham in prison when Alana Bloom reports that he's having suicidal thoughts. [one-shot turned multichapter, used to be called 'Same Time Tomorrow'] {tw: suicide, mild psychological abuse}
1. Hello, Doctor Lecter

A/N; okay so I sat on my couch for ten hours with my ridiculously huge phone and only managed to accidentally delete a heap of it and be forced to rewrite it once. Thank God. I'm posting this from my phone out of pure laziness to move myself from my lounge to my bedroom so I hope it's formatted okay. I'm rewarding myself with chocolate as I type. So I hope you enjoy it! I certainly worked hard.

**Tw: mentions of suicide and generally manipulative Hannibal. This is not a lovey hannigram fic by any means. **

* * *

Alana Bloom sits directly across from Will Graham, her legs and arms are folded. Defensive, Will thinks.

"Jack Crawford sent me in to evaluate you, he can't get a hold of Dr. Lecter."

Will looks down at the floor, the last thing he wants to do is come face to face with Lecter again. His hatred for the man burns hotter than the hatred for the kids who harassed him in high school. He closes his eyes.

"How are you feeling?" Alana asks.

Will gives a dry, humorless laugh and glances at the ceiling. "I'm fine, yeah. My career has been destroyed, my reputation... I can't sleep, I hallucinate. Everything's going just great," he spits the last word like it's a foul taste in his mouth.

Alana unfolds her arms only to adjust herself and fold them again. "How many hours have you slept this week, Will?"

He thinks for a second, then glances at the clock in the hallway, "I've been awake for exactly 58 hours. It's a new personal best."

Alana keeps her face passive, despite the concern that churns in her stomach. "Are you having any suicidal thoughts? "

"What do you think?"

"I think you're up for numerous murder charges that could lock you away for life."

Will doesn't look at her, instead he stands and lays down in his cot. Alana Bloom won't be getting any more answers out of him today.

"Ah Dr. Lecter, you finally pick up the phone!" Jack Crawford exclaims.

Hannibal smiles, "My sincerest apologies, I was suffering from a bought of stomach flu."

"Well I'm glad you're better now, Doctor." Jack scribbles down some phone numbers he means to call later. "Would it be possible for you to come in and talk to our dear Will?"

Hannibal answers without hesitation, "Of course."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"He did try to kill you."

"I can handle him."

"I think Will is suicidal," Alana Bloom says.

"It doesn't surprise me," Hannibal counters, "I'm honestly surprised he held out this long."

"I don't think he's going to cooperate with us," Jack interjects.

Hannibal looks down at his notes, flicks through some papers. Will had never before reported feeling like topping himself but Hannibal had never doubted that the thoughts would plague his mind in the middle of the night. He isn't too concerned.

"I must request to speak with him in private, somewhere comfortable."

Jack sighs and looks down at his desk, "Are you sure?"

Hannibal nods, "I believe it's the only way I'm going to get anything out of him."

"I'll work something out."

An hour later Hannibal Lecter is carrying a taser in one pocket and handcuffs in the other. Jack instructed him to perform a physical examination on him as well as a psychological examination, Hannibal knows Will better than anyone after all.

He takes a left into a small corridor that leads to an even smaller room. Inside Will Graham is sitting on a two seated couch with a coffee table in front of his knees. He is rigid. Hannibal smirks and turns the knob and steps inside. Will flinches at the noise.

"How are you Will?" Hannibal says, closing the door behind him.

The room is roughly the size of a standard cell, except cleaner and softer and warmer. Comfortable. Will looks away.

"They called me in to evaluate you," he places his briefcase on the coffee table, next to the plastic jug of water. "And I need you to cooperate."

Will is visibly upset.

Hannibal sits down next to him. "How are you feeling?"

Will keeps his gaze firmly fixed on a chipped brick in the wall; his chest is tight like someone has wrapped barb wire around his ribcage and pulled tight. He's panicking. "O-okay." He manages.

"Good, we're making progress," Hannibal places his hand on Will's thigh.

His touch feels white-hot, painful. Will's breath catches in his throat and his entire body tenses against it. "Don't touch me."

Hannibal ignores him, and opens his mouth to speak.

"Don't touch me."

"Will-"

"Don't touch me! Don't touch me!"

His voice is growing increasingly panicky and Hannibal still chooses to ignore his requests.

"Get off me!" Will shouts, he slaps his hand away and attempts to slide over to get away from him but hits the wooden arm of the chair on his hipbone. He cries out and holds his side.

Hannibal remains passive. "Are you alright Will?" He replaces his hand on his upper thigh.

Will keens, "Please Hannibal," and he finally meets Hannibal's eyes.

He's satisfied, and he takes his hand away.

Will sighs shakily and just barely manages to snuff out a panic attack before it completely envelopes him. Hannibal leans over and fills up a glass of water then offers it to him. Will shakes his head. Hannibal takes a mouthful and places the cup back down on the table.

"How are you feeling?"

"Violated."

Hannibal gives a look that might be mistaken for guilt before sitting back in his seat. "Are you having suicidal thoughts?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Because we are concerned for you."

Will almost hisses. "I don't believe you."

Hannibal wraps his hand around Will's forearm, he doesn't flinch or pull away. "If I handed you a gun, right now, could you guarantee that you wouldn't turn it on yourself?"

Will hesitates for a second, then shakes his head. Hannibal expects him to do something, anything. Cry. Maybe shout at him. But he doesn't. Will is numb. "If you gave me a razor I'd slit my wrists, if you gave me a noose I'd wear it around my neck and jump from the rafters."

Hannibal rubs his thumb in circles and feels the muscles underneath relax. Will sighs.

"Do you have a history of this?"

"I don-"

"We don't have to talk about it. I just need to know if you need to be hospitalised for a short time to deal with this."

Will shakes his head, "No I don't need it."

Emotionally disarmed and feeling physically sick, Will hides his head in his hands and places his elbows on his knees. It takes a second for Will to unwind and let the emotions flood back into his system again. Hannibal doesn't feel bad about this. If anything he feels accomplished that he was able to bring Will down to such a level... he likes it. He likes watching him fall apart bit by bit, likes watching the pieces start to fall from his puzzle. Will's web of sanity intricately starts to unwind in the most puzzling of ways. Hannibal wants to know exactly how he still walks around like nothing is wrong. In time, Will will trust him again. He knows it.

"If you don't mind; I have to examine you physically. To make sure you're healthy."

Will sniffles and wipes his face. Pathetic, Hannibal thinks. Will is submissive now, he sees no point in resisting whatever Hannibal has to throw at him, he just hopes no needles will be involved.

Hannibal pops open his briefcase and pulls out a stethoscope, "Can you unbutton your shirt for me Will?"

With shaking fingers Will undoes the first four buttons, then clasps his hands in his lap. Hannibal works the ear pieces into his ears and smiles comfortingly at Will; who doesn't look at him. Hannibal shifts the collar of Will's shirt aside and ignores the whistling of a terrified breath through Will's nose. He flinches away from Hannibal when he presses the cold metal to his chest.

"God that's cold," he hisses.

Hannibal chuckles, "Sorry."

Will's fists clench around the material of his pants, he concentrates hard on that chipped brick, wonders how it got to be chipped.

"Breathe in..." he does. "Breathe out..." he does, albeit shakily. "Now I need you to turn around." Will shakes his head, eyes still locked on the brick. "Will." Shakes his head again. Hannibal slides his hand up his neck and rests his hand on Will's jaw. "Will I have to check everything or I will have failed my duties as a doctor."

Will closes his eyes and carefully slides around so his back is facing Hannibal. "I need you to unbutton your shirt completely."

"No."

"Will..." Hannibal sighs.

"Can't you leave me alone?"

Hannibal slides the pieces out of his ears and places them back on the table. Will is terrified all of a sudden, like Hannibal might hurt him because he didn't obey. He suddenly squeezes the back of his neck and Will gasps. His stomach clenches. Oh God.

"Will I need you to cooperate for me," Hannibal's other hand comes to rest on his shoulder and his thumbs dig in. He begins to work the tension from Will's shoulders.

It hurts for a second then his shoulders drop, he unwillingly lets out a soft moan. Hannibal smirks.

"Why won't you cooperate, Will?" He slides his thumbs down his spine, forcing it to arch away from him.

Will reaches around himself and grabs a hold of Hannibal's wrists. He forces them away. "Leave."

He easily twists out of Will's grip. "Will I-"

"No!"

"Will-"

"What do you want from me?"

Hannibal turns to sit straight on the chair, "I want to know how long it's been since you slept."

Will swallows, "About sixty hours."

"Why?"

"I can't sleep."

"You have no history of insomnia-"

"No, I mean I don't want to sleep. I'm afraid."

"Of what?"

"Nightmares."

"About?"

"About," his voice breaks, "killing Abigail Hobbs."

"That's understandable, seeing as you... did."

Will suddenly stands, his legs can hardly hold his weight. He's shaking. "I didn't. I know I didn't."

Hannibal stands to match him, "Will all the evidence says otherwise."

"But I don't remember!"

"Georgia Madgen didn't remember her crimes."

"I AM NOT GEORGIA MADGEN," he cries, "I DIDN'T HURT ANYONE. YOU SET ME UP," he spins to face Hannibal and points threateningly at him. "AND NO ONE WILL BELIEVE ME WHEN I TRY TO TELL THEM."

"Will calm down," Hannibal reaches out a hand with the intention of laying it on Will's shoulder, but he smacks it away.

"No! I know what you're doing!" He steps forward, but he finds a cold lump of metal under his chin. He gasps in surprise and anger is replaced with sheer terror. Possibilities and scenarios ran through his head, is it a gun? Has Hannibal Lecter been out to kill him this entire time? The noise in his head stops abruptly and all that's left is the sound of his own frenzied breathing. He meets Hannibal's eyes.

"I have been authorized to use this if you misbehave," he lingers on the word 'misbehave'.

Will stumbles back from Hannibal, breathless and neaseus and terrified. He hits the wall and helplessly slides down it to curl in on himself when he hits the floor. He bursts into tears. Just the way Hannibal likes it.

He sits on the couch and fills out the necessary forms, places them into his briefcase. By the time he's finished Will Graham has fallen asleep in the corner and is snoring softly.

Hannibal stands, "I think we've finished for today."

Jack Crawford is waiting in his office for Hannibal to finish, as soon as he enters Jack is on his feet.

"Is he suicidal?"

"Glaringly."

Jack sighs. "Does he need to be transferred?"

"No."

"Then what do you suggest?"

Hannibal pops open his briefcase and retrieves a script, then hands it to Jack, "He's afraid to sleep. He's afraid to dream, in fact. I'm hoping that these pills will put him so far under that he won't dream."

Jack nods and folds the script up and slides it into his pocket. Hannibal closes his briefcase. "How is he now?"

"Asleep, it might be best to not move him until he wakes."

"Very well. Is there anything else?"

"He cant know that he's taking them, if he does he will resist."

Jack nods, "Same time next week?"

"Oh no, same time tomorrow I should think."


	2. Snap

a/n: another day on the couch whoops. I got a pretty good response from the last chapter so I decided to continue it. I don't know where I'm actually going with this but ill figure it out tonight. Again- posted from my phone so I hope the formatting is okay. Its a little under 1200 words.

**trigger warnings apply**

* * *

Will Graham awakes about eleven hours later, disoriented and sore. His left leg is numb. The room is in half darkness, so he assumes he has to be late afternoon or night at least. Vaguely he recalls a meeting with Doctor Lecter but for the life of him, can't remember why he's curled up in the corner. Did Lecter knock him unconscious? Will touches his forehead and runs his hand through his hair searching for bumps or sore spots- nothing. So no. He groans as he sits up straight, his shoulders are sore. Shoulders... Oh. Oh! Suddenly he recalls the entire meeting all at once and his body tingles and his stomach drops and he's afraid he's going to be sick but he can't move without making it worse. All he can do is sit and breathe.

Hannibal Lecter doesn't feel remorse, or guilt, or anything that could make him pass as an okay human being. He can fake it to get what he wants, but apart from that. He flips through his notes about Will Graham, shifts the clocks aside, his handwriting samples, signature samples, and a full set of finger prints. Hannibal checks his wristwatch: 10:48pm. He should probably sleep now, considering he has to be at the prison by 10am.

The next two sessions pass in nearly complete silence. Will keeps his eyes fixed on the same brick and Hannibal ends up playing Solitaire on the coffee table for an hour and a half.

"Is today Wednesday?" Will asks suddenly, about half an hour into their fourth session.

"Thursday."

"Oh."

And they lapse into silence again.

On Saturday, Will brings a book to session and Hannibal asks him why.

"Because it's boring sitting here staring at the wall," he answers shortly.

Hannibal collects the playing cards and begins to sort them by suit. "Conversation is even more enlighting."

"Not with you."

Hannibal sighs, "Will... Will?" Upon getting no answer, he sighs again and goes back to sorting cards.

Will opens his book up to a different page altogether but doesn't turn the page for ten minutes. He's too tense to concentrate on the words. He feels as though he could implode any second from the pressure and the stress and the constant feeling of dread that keeps him tossing and turning through the night. He turns the page with shaky fingers.

"Will, do you need anything?"

"Not from you."

"Are you sure?"

He's not certain how to answer that, he could probably use some Xanax or some powerful anti-depressants or a lobotomy. "Yeah."

Next Tuesday, Will finally interacts with Hannibal.

"Fancy a game of snap?"

"The card game?"

"Yes."

Will closes his book and lowers it to the floor, "Okay." He slides to the floor in front of the coffee table and between the sofa, forcing Hannibal to move around the other side to leave his briefcase beside Will. He feels a little safer.

Hannibal cuts the deck and hands half the cards to Will, who takes every precaution to not touch Hannibals fingers. Hannibal wins the first game, the second game, and the third game and by that time Will is getting frustrated.

Aggrivated, Will finally manages to slap his hand down on the pile before Hannibal does. He greedily pulls in the cards.

Hannibal smirks.

He's getting somewhere.

So it becomes a thing for two weeks until Will begins to enjoy playing snap. But unfortunately it's the only thing that can get him to speak.

"So, Will, how are you?" Hannibal asks, then cuts the cards.

"Well rested, uh, I'm not dreaming any more," he shuffles his own cards then looks up at Hannibal, but doesn't meet his eyes.

"That's good, isn't it?"

Will puts a card down, "I kinds... miss it."

Hannibal cocks an eyebrow, "How so?"

"Well it was predictable and it, it, was like a security blanket."

"But you were afraid."

Will slaps his hand down on the pile and Hannibal's hand lands on top, he doesn't lift it.

"Yes."

"Why do you think that is?"

Will's heart starts to race, he can hear it beating in his ears. He licks his lower lip. "I don't know."

"Yes you do."

"I don't know!"

"Think about it."

In a heartbeat the look on Hannibal's face turns malicious and suddenly Will can't pull his hand away. He breathes deeply; five counts in five counts out.

Five counts in five counts out.

"I learned to live with it, and now peaceful sleep just seems strange."

Five counts in five counts out.

Hannibal releases his hand and Will quickly scrambles up onto the sofa to escape him. His heart slows, his breathing evens out and he pushes the briefcase away from him like it might hurt him.

"Get out."

Jack looks up from his laptop as Hannibal enters the room 45 minutes earlier than expected, "Finished early?"

"He had a panic attack," Hannibal says.

He sighs. "Can I sit in on one session? Is that possible?"

Hannibal nods, "Tomorrow?"

In response Jack scribbles something down in his notebook and closes it, "You've got me for two hours."

Jack gives Hannibal a ten minute head start to make sure Will is okay.

Hannibal sits beside Will on the couch and places his hand on his thigh. Will tenses. "Jack Crawford asked to sit in this session, is that okay?"

Will nods slowly, though neither of them are good company, perhaps Jack will notice that Will doesn't like Hannibal Lecter all that much. This is a good thing then.

"Good," Hannibal smiles and gets up to open the door for Jack, who closes it behind himself.

Will smiles at him with teeth, convince him he's getting better.

"How are you?" Jack asks.

"Good, actually. I feel much better. I think D- Hannibal has done me good," Will replies over-confidently, careful to use Hannibal's first name.

"We usually start by playing some card games," Hannibal says. "Snap again?"

Will shakes his head, "Go Fish."

"Can I play?" Jack asks.

Hannibal looks at Will, who is still smiling, "I don't see why not."

After two hours of card games and teaching Will to play poker, Jack has to leave for an appointment.

"You were happy today," Hannibal remarks as soon as Jack disappears.

On cue, Will's smile drops and the spark disappears from his eyes, "Have they come any further in the investigation?"

"No, the murders have stopped since you've been in here."

Will sighs heavily. Great.

"It's been put on hold, actually."

Five counts in, five counts out. Will focuses on the chipped brick. "Okay."

"So you'll be staying in here for a while."

"I know."

"Does it bother you?

Five counts in... five counts out.

"Does it bother you, Will?"

"Goodbye Doctor Lecter."

"Answ-"

"Goodbye Doctor Lecter."

"Just one more thing. Are you still suicidal?"

Will takes a shaky breath, "Goodbye Doctor Lecter."

"He seems a lot better," Jack says.

"Yes, I think he's progressing," Hannibal answers.

"Is he still suicidal?"

"Unfortunately."

"Then you should keep going with your sessions, but give him a week off, I think the everyday thing is wearing him out."

"Of course."


	3. Razor Blades

a/n: its kinda short and I wasnt going to update until tomorrow, because I cant write today im updating early.

**trigger warnings still apply**

* * *

"How are you feeling, Will?" Jack Crawford sits in a position not unlike the one Alana Bloom sat in a few weeks ago.

Will Graham sits unmoving, not making eye contact. Staring at the ceiling and picking at his fingernails. "I'm feeling fine."

Jack unfolds his arms. "You know that you won't be having sessions with Doctor Lecter until next week?"

Will looks down at him, an expression of annoyance flits across his face. "I do now."

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"Can I have one more session?"

"Of course."

"He wants one more session," Jack says into the mouthpiece, "I think we're getting somewhere."

Hannibal Lecter spoons a mouthful of hot, oriental style soup into his mouth. Swallows. "I think it would be beneficial for him to go without the pills tonight."

Jack swings his legs up onto the desk, "Why do you think that?"

"He expressed his concerns about his lack of dreaming, and I want to see if he still dreams off medication," he swallows another mouthful and places the spoon beside the bowl. "I predict a complete lack of sleep."

Jack nods and makes a note of it, "Ten tomorrow?"

"Ten tomorrow."

Hannibal places his phone back on the reciever and goes back to eating. After he finishes he packs his briefcase for the next day and makes sure to pack a pencil and its accompanying sharpener.

He's frustrated to the point of tears at 5am, he can't sleep. He's tossing and turning and trying desperately to put his mind at ease but to no avail. Will throws the thin covers to the floor and stands. There's an annoying hum of flourescent lights in the air that seems to scream in his ears. The itch of his cotton tee shirt makes his skin crawl. He just wants to tear it all off. He sinks to his knees with his hands in his hair and bursts into tears.

At 7:40 exactly Will is bought a simple breakfast of sausage and scrambled eggs with a plastic knife and fork. He takes the knife and slides it under his mattress. He doesn't eat. A sickness comprised of dread and low blood sugar gnaws at his lower stomach, making all food look undesirable. He sighs and sits in the corner and scrapes the serated edge of the plastic knife along the concrete floor, sharpening it.

When Hannibal enters the room, Will is lying on the couch with a sheet over him. The light is off.

"I take it you didn't sleep well," Hannibal says quietly.

Will cracks open an eyelid and glares at him, "Not at all, actually."

Hannibal carefully places his briefcase down on the coffee table, careful not to make too much noise. Then he crouches down at Will's head and places his hand on Will's forehead. He's too tired to react.

"You're warm," he says.

"I figured as much, I don't feel so good," Will mumbles in response.

Hannibal takes his hands away and pops open his briefcase. The pencil and sharpener are on top of everything. "Would you like me to check you over?"

Will thinks for a second, then nods. "Okay."

Will starts to push himself up and Hannibal helps him, for now the only obligation he has to fill is that of a doctor. So he checks Will's vitals and finds everything is within a normal range, his blood sugar is indeed lower than usual, nothing to worry about though.

"Did you eat this morning?" Hannibal stands to toss the wrappings in the bin.

Will quickly snatches the sharpener from the top of the briefcase and slides it into his pocket. "No, I was too sick to."

Hannibal returns and snaps the briefcase shut, then digs into his inner jacket pocket and produces a plastic box that rattles. Sleeping pills. Will doesn't question why he has them, he just takes them. Then settles back down on the sofa. Hannibal pulls the sheet back over him and Will tucks it under his chin. He can feel the meds start to kick in.

Comfortingly, Hannibal places his hand on the dip at his waist and waits for him to fall into unconsciousness.

At around 11pm that night, Will wakes in his cot in his cell. He can't remember how he got there. A trickle of panic tingles through his fingers and he sits up abruptly. The room spins and lurches out from underneath him. He lies down again. He hasn't eaten since yesterday and he feels the all too familiar emptiness start to consume him. He checks his pocket and finds the sharpener thankfully still there. Shakily, he sits and props himself against the wall. Does he really want to do this? Yes. He thunks his head against the wall. He's got nothing left to lose anyway. Even if he fucks it up or someone finds him beforehand, he would still get out of this wretched place and away from Hannibal Lecter.

He just wants to escape.

All Will wants to do is go back home with his dogs and his fly fishing and live a long and happy life far far away from the FBI and Baltimore. Maybe he'll move to Florida and get fantastically tan from surfing and and fixing diesel engines shirtless. He wants a wife and a child. He wants a beautiful house. He wants to live his fucking life without Hannibal Lecter fucking it up!

He smashes his left fist into the concrete wall beside him so hard it shatters two knuckles. The pain is so horrendous the anger slips away, out of his control. He bites back a cry of pain.

He cradles his hand in the crook of his elbow and watches it purpling and swelling rapidly. The action was impulsive and stupid, and is now going to make everything harder.

Will closes his eyes and breathes, five counts in five counts out. He repeats that until he feels calm enough to carry on.

He tugs the sharpener out of his pocket and starts to undo the screw holding the blade to the plastic.

"Hello?" Hannibal grudgingly answers the telephone at 2:28am. He rolls off the bed and sits up, rubbing his eyes.

"Hannibal, it's Will," Jack Crawford sounds panicky and breathless.

"What?"

"He tried to kill himself."


	4. Hospital Beds

A/N: okay so i'm back on my laptop which means that the formatting and writing quality will go way up, i can guarantee it. i'm also creating a playlist for this story so i'll probs make that into a downloadable fanmix at some point in time. the top songs are I, Dementia by Whitechapel and Therapy by All Time Low and the crack song is Emo by Blink-182. Sorry not sorry.

also ! yOU GUYS ARE SO NICE IM ! so incredibly ecstatic to see that this has gotten such a good response ! ! waking up and finding new reviews make my whole day. i love you guys, even you guys that are lurking and i know youre there.

{HIATUS NOTICE ! i will be away until the 6th/7th but you may or may not get an update in that time because i typically write in the car on long trips  i've been updating almost daily but i'll be away from thursday-saturday/possibly sunday and i might not have a new chapter by this time next week !}

**trigger warning !**

* * *

Hannibal Lecter puts the phone down, ending the conversation with Jack Crawford on a daunting note. He's not concerned about Will Graham, quite the opposite actually. He just hopes that Will will cooperate in the psychiatric ward they're sure to put him in.

Hannibal stands and dresses in something comfortable in case he's forced to stay overnight. He picks his briefcase up off the tabletop and leaves his house for the hospital at 3am, he hopes that no neighbors are peeking through their curtains wondering what this strange man is doing at this hour of the morning.

"He's in surgery, he's stable. He lost a lot of blood though and by the time we found him he'd almost bled out," Jack says, his hands are clasped in front of him; nervous, anxious. This will all be on his head if Will doesn't make it.

Hannibal stands beside him, his face is a mixture of held contentment and a façade of grief and shock. His body is otherwise relaxed. The briefcase is held in his left hand. "How did he do it?"

"He found a sharpener, like for pencils," Jack replies, disbelieving like. "He took it apart and… he did some damage to his knuckles too. I think he hit the wall a few times with his fist."

"Where could he have gotten a sharpener from?" Hannibal muses.

Jack shrugs, "We started giving him plastic cutlery."

In a split second, Hannibal is able to draw up the necessary muscle tension and faux-emotion to rival theatre actors, and essentially panic. He opens the briefcase in a frenzy and digs through the compartments, then drops it to the floor and put his head in his hands. Jack is taken aback by the sudden flurry of movement.

"I keep a sharpener on me instead of a scalpel if I'm out of the office," his voice is shaking, or rather, the voice on top of his voice is shaking.

The little 'oh' that falls from Jack's mouth is too loud. Hannibal conjures up the necessary tears before lifting his head. "It-I-I didn't think, I-"

"It's okay, everyone makes mistakes."

"My mistake nearly killed Will!" he shouts.

Jack can't come up with something to say back to him, to his knowledge, Will Graham is Hannibal Lecter's best friend and vice versa, and Jack can only reflect on the death of Miriam Lass and how he felt when he inadvertently got her killed. But she wasn't his best friends, they are acquaintances. He can hardly imagine the pain Hannibal must feel.

But the truth is that Hannibal Lecter doesn't feel anything. He's an empty shell of a man filling it with the flesh of other men. He is a pitiful creature and he knows it. The only thing Hannibal Lecter could possibly be afraid of is getting caught out by someone inferior to him- the police for instance. He would be disgusted with himself if it ever came to that.

He stoops to pick up the briefcase and its spilled contents and comes up more tearful still; Jack would be too moved by his loss of composure to think of anything else. Shock Value.

Hannibal Lecter: 1

Jack Crawford: 0

Jack replaces his hand on Hannibal's shoulder and leads him out of the elevator as it dings open.

"There's nothing you could have done to prevent this, Doctor Lecter, okay?"

Hannibal nods.

"Good, he'll be in room 1211 and the bathroom is down the hall to your right."

Hannibal doesn't answer; he just heads straight to the lavatory.

He's breathing but no air is getting to his lungs, he's looking around with wide eyes but he can't seem to see anything. His vision swims.

Suddenly Hannibal Lecter is at the foot of his bed; hand on the chunky metal chains around his ankle. He feels scared but it only penetrates skin deep, like he's feeding off the fear of a large crowd.

Will starts and attempts to sit up, but chains made of bone painted metallic are holding him to the bed. To the bed that's no longer in his bedroom. Hannibal Lecter leers down at him, tracing his fingers up his calf, up his thighs. He climbs up on the bed with a knife between his teeth.

Will's thoughts are sluggish, he feels as though he's wading through tar.

Lecter's mouth opens freakishly wide and the knife is suddenly in his hand, pressing down on Will's hip bone. He clasps his hands around Will's wrists and he's sitting on him. On his thighs. Will thrashes violently but it's like his actions go straight through him. He opens his mouth to scream for help and can't produce a sound. It wobbles from his lips and falls. The noise hardly reaches past his chin and Hannibal Lecter just laughs. Suddenly Will is sobbing and wailing and screaming and Hannibal Lecter is carving lines into his forearms and he's laughing and blood is pouring from his eye sockets suddenly empty. Will's stomach lurches-

Hannibal watches over Will closely, watches his eyes move beneath their lids. He squashes the urge to up Will's medication to keep him asleep and unaware of his state of mind. A part of him almost hates to see him in limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness, between self hate and the hate of everything around him. Hannibal takes a deep breath and shakes it off.

The heart rate monitor beside Will's bed begins to show that his heart is beating faster. Damn. He's dreaming. Will shakes and shudders and coughs and Hannibal waits for it to pass. But when it doesn't he's forced to push him upright.

-and suddenly he's leaning over a hospital bed retching, his throat burns. He can't orientate himself and he can't see anything through this haze of tears. Then a hand touches his back. It's warm and grounding, large, comforting. It pushes him through this horrifying loss of senses until Will finally pulls his head up.

He looks around to discover that the hand belongs to Hannibal Lecter himself. He tries to scream, his mouth opens but all that comes out is a loud hiss of hot air. His heart thuds heavily in his chest, deafening in his ears.

There's so much noise. The white of the walls, the bright suit-clad psychiatrist sitting next to him shrieks a disturbing call, but the room is silent save for the quickened pace of the heart monitor. Will claps his hands over his ears, cries out in pain, pulls his left hand in front of him.

Hannibal Lecter leans over and takes his right hand into both of his own.

"Focus on my touch, Will."

His voice penetrates through the wall of noisy panic and smothers it.

"Focus on my voice."

"Close your eyes and breathe."

His fingers move up his wrist to take his pulse, machines are unreliable.

Will lets his lids close and forces his breathing to even out. As he puts it under control, the smog in his mind clears and his heart rate slows. He shudders.

"Do you know where you are, Will?"

His voice is still disembodied, floating in mid air, all around him. Will shakes his head.

"You're in the hospital, you tried to kill yourself, do you remember?"

_I tried to kill myself?_

To Will it seems preposterous, he would never…

He glances down at his left hand, wrapped in bandages from the wrist to the elbow, and his middle and ring fingers are splinted. He can't move it.

"They're transferring you to the psychiatric ward this afternoon; it's not safe for you in your cell."

The word 'cell' rattles around in his skull.

Oh.

_Oh_.

Almost as quickly as he woke up he shuts down, he lies back down and closes his eyes and falls asleep immediately. Hannibal huffs, lets go of his hand, and leaves to inform the nurses.


	5. Suspicions

A/N: disclaimer !: I am not a doctor/psychiatrist/expert however I am autistic myself and I'm repeating and interpreting the words that my specialist said to me last session when we were talking about empathy vs sympathy and autistic empathy and lack thereof and how it's not _really a lack of _empathy but more a lack of skills to be able to interpret said empathy. And I agree with that completely. Only socio/psychopath antisocialpersonalitydisorders don't have _empathy_ like that and that's Hannibal Lecter for you. Hannibal wouldn't feel bad if he fucked something up and accidentally murdered someone where as Will would probs freak out on the spot. That's the difference between them and the difference between the disorders.

If I hear one more 'high functioning sociopath' thing used positively I will cut someone.

{int/ext is for my own benefit of keeping track of where everyone is}

_**oh my god the reviews **_

* * *

{INT. Hospital Corridor, Late Afternoon}

"Don't let Freddy Lounds in, whatever the cost," Jack Crawford says, swishing his pointer finger through the air at a nameless, faceless guard.

The guard nods.

Jack moves down the hallway, his presence forces rigidity into the spines of the guards and doctors alike. They know his power and they're not willing to test it. Hannibal Lecter is the only one to stay slightly hunched at the end of the hall; he's scrawling something in a sketch pad resting on his thigh.

He's scribbling down a simple anatomical diagram of the veins in Will Graham's body. They're not perfect but he's got a long time yet to look over him physically.

"Doctor Lecter," Jack says, startling Hannibal out of his head.

He straightens, "Yes?"

"How is he?"

Hannibal closes his pad and slides it into his pocket, "Better I should say."

Jack turns and leans against the wall beside him, "I've been meaning to ask you, uh, I'm sure it's nothing… but where were _you_ at the time of Abigail's death?"

Hannibal remains cool, so now they're no longer speculating on whether Abigail is still alive or not. This isn't what Hannibal was counting on. "Looking for Abigail, of course."

The noise of the layers of fabric rubbing together grates on Hannibal's ears; he winces. Jack doesn't notice. He sighs, "You know what I'm asking and I'm- I'm just having doubts."

"You're grabbing at handholds that crumble beneath your fingers."

"I just don't think Will Graham killed that many people, it seems like too much of a stretch. Yes he's 'mentally ill' but there's nothing there that really solidly suggests that he actually killed them!"

Hannibal feels the extravagant ship he sails on the sea of manipulation start to sink. He feels sick. "It's perfectly logical that you feel this way but I must ask you- why me?"

"Handholds."

* * *

{INT. Will's Hospital Room, Late Nighttime.}

Will mostly sleeps, his good arm under his head and his injured one cradled into his chest. They finally put him back on the sleeping pills so he enjoys the peaceful sleep while he can. In his sleep he sighs, rolls over, pushes the sheets off himself and brings his knees up to his chest to counter the chilly air. In his fleeting moments of dreams, he can see sunlight. He can see the reflection of the sun on the ocean and a shadow, a boat. Laughing and smiling children are splashing carelessly in the water, making sandcastles, play wrestling with each other. Will watches them with a glass bottle of beer in his hands.

* * *

~Two Weeks Later~

{INT. Will's Room, Early Morning.}

Will Graham sleeps, it's like he's trying to catch up on a lifetime's worth of all nighters. The nurses don't bother waking him up for meals anymore, it's not like he eats anything. They adjust his drip and leave. Hannibal Lecter still comes in every day for their allotted hour, even though Will usually ends up staring tearfully at a spot on the wall. Not even Hannibal can get him to speak.

"-non verbal."

"Autistic?"

"He's missing a diagnosis," that's Hannibal's voice, no mistaking the accent.

Will doesn't open his eyes, he has no idea if they can see him or not.

"Does he fit the DSM-IV though?" a female nurse asks.

"I should think so. His lack of social skills manifested into mild social anxiety, and stress escalated it from there. I do believe that he truthfully cannot remember his crimes and I understand how distressing this must be for him… if Georgia Madgen were still alive I would place them in session together."

There's a slightly uncomfortable shift of shoes over linoleum and clothes over bodies, before Jack Crawford speaks up, "Does this have anything to do with autism?"

"No. Autism is not a dangerous disorder, as much as people say it is. Autistic children can be difficult to control and may be rude or disrespectful but their lack of social awareness contributes heavily to that. If they're not provoked they won't attack."

"But it makes them more susceptible to these kinds of things?"

"As I said before, autism is not the root cause of his current predicament."

Will opens his eyes and finds that he cannot see the group. He figures they're around the corner. He hears Hannibal say something more, but his words are lost through a sea of fatigue.

* * *

{Noon}

Will blinks, and suddenly Hannibal is sitting on the chair beside him, sketch pad in hand. He's scribbling furiously. The door is closed and locked with a chair behind it. Will frowns.

"Freddy Lounds tried to break in," Hannibal says casually, not looking up from his pad.

Will raises his heavy head a few inches off the pillow, "Break in?"

"Yes, she tried to pick the lock. She's been arrested."

Will sighs, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.

* * *

{INT. Café. Afternoon}

Jack sits at a downtown café with a burger meal and a soda in front of him, Hannibal sits across the table with his own food, much to the annoyance of the company. It's 1:00pm exactly.

"What are you eating?"

Hannibal tilts his Tupperware container toward Jack and prods the salad with his fork, "I had to get rid of these vegetables so I made them into a salad."

Jack chuckles, "Rabbit food."

"It's healthier than your meal surely."

"True, but I was never one for salads."

Hannibal takes back his Tupperware and they sit there munching on their respective meals for a little while, until Jack works up the courage to bring up the subject again.

"Okay we looked back through security footage, records, we talked to some people, and we found that you weren't in your office _or_ your home at the time of the murders," Jack says quickly. "I just-"

"You're feeling bad about putting a friend through this, Jack, you need to separate yourself from Will."

"But I arrested him in the first place under suspicion then the evidence told me otherwise but I know Will. He isn't capable of this. He could hardly fire at someone trying to kill him when he was out in the field, there is just no way he'd even thought about any of these murders before he fell ill."

"We never know someone as well as we think we do, Jack. And that applies to Will too."

"Does it apply to you, Doctor Lecter?"

Hannibal pauses.

"Of course."

* * *

**A/N: sorry this is so short**


	6. Bathtubs

_Guest: I think he would feel bad if he somehow f***ed up Will in some permenant way. While socio/psychopaths don't have empathy they have a warped sense of emotion. LIke he wants Will as a friend. The way he attaches friends to him is warped into a sense of ownership. Like partners in crime with Abigail and his psychiatrist. When they become his possessions, he'll have no real use for something damaged._

Yes this! ^^^ He has no sentimental attachment to them. If they were to break he would be annoyed like if you broke a toy, but he wouldn't necessarily feel bad about it the same way you and I feel bad about something. It's just my personal views on the character, but I do know some people try to make him out to be an anti-hero and he's actually just misunderstood and weepy on the inside and we should all feel sorry for him.

A/N: i feel like i make too many author notes but then i remember that i usually get weirded out when there are no authors notes like someone has handed u and letter with no indications of who it's from and it just says some weird words and yea

there's only one scene in this one so that's a change (considering i have like 50000000 scenes in 1000 words in the last chapters)

also i have a definite ending and i suspect that there'll be anywhere between 3-6 chapters left yay

and are ppl supposed to proof read this or

because no one told me and i just finish it and post it pre much straight away i think theyre called beta readers oops i hpoe theres not many typos

_im a professional who does professional things and is good at their profession_

* * *

{INT. Shower. Late Nighttime}

Will Graham sits on the bottom of the hospital bathtub, hot water pouring over his aching muscles. He imagines the filth caked over his mind is running down the drain, into the sewers and back out into an expanse of ocean, where he will one day decide to deal with it. For now he just wants to feel okay again. The metal braces on his hand heats up with the blistering heat of the shower, and the itchy, flaky, half-healed lines across his wrist turn bright purple. Absently, he runs his fingers over them. He can't wait for them to fade. For now though, long sleeves in summer will have to suffice until his bulk order of Bio Oil comes in the mail. He chuckles at his own thoughts.

"Knock knock knock," a lady nurse calls, barging in any way without waiting for an answer.

Will grabs a corner of the shower curtain and covers himself up with it. "Hello."

The lady nurse is probably around 50, curly grey hair, plump for her age. She's wearing thick rimmed glasses. "Isn't it hot in there, dear?"

Will shakes his head, "I usually take hot showers."

She rolls her eyes at him, "Don't burn yourself now." She slaps some towels back onto the rack and stacks some rolls of toilet paper next to the toilet. Will watches her move about, eager to see her leave. She turns to face him, "You're alright in here for another ten minutes?"

Will nods, makes eye contact.

"Alright then."

Will lets go of the shower curtain and lays back, places his head on the edge of the bathtub. The intrusion has shaken him out of his meditative tranquility. He sighs, but before he has a chance to relax again, someone bashes on the door.

"Can I come in?" of course it's Hannibal Lecter. It's about time for him to come and ruin Will's perfect day.

He considers refusing, actually 80% of his sarcastic "I guess so," actually means no, if Hannibal cares. But he doesn't so it doesn't even matter if he had flat out said no because the prick would come in anyway. Disgruntled, Will doesn't even bother to cover up.

Hannibal opens the door and steps inside the large bathroom, he surveys the room quickly, then pulls up a plastic chair to sit on. He slides the shower curtain aside.

"How are you feeling today, Will?" he asks.

Will notices the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and his heart rate quicken. "Fine."

Hannibal's gaze sweeps down his body, once upon a time it wouldn't have been an intrusive thing, but maybe something that meant he cared for him. "You have a bruise," Hannibal points to his upper thigh. "Bruise_s_."

Will lifts his injured hand and uses his elbow to help prop himself up into a sitting position. "I noticed."

"Have you been hurting yourself, Will?"

He doesn't answer.

"Will this will affect how much time you spend in here-"

"No."

Hannibal sits back on his chair, "I thought so."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that you're in a position where any other person would be stressed and on edge and unable to cope. I think that you are coping. Whether it be healthy or unhealthy, you are coping."

Will turns to face Hannibal, folding his legs against the side of the tub, "I am not _coping_. There is no way anyone at all can cope in 'my position' as you keep putting it. There is no way that I am getting out of this alive. I've already tried once and there's nothing stopping me from doing it again." Will feels tears start to push their way up. This is _his life_ this is _his health _this is _WILL GRAHAM BEING CONCERNED FOR HIS OWN FUTURE. _He _knows_ that he didn't kill those people; it doesn't make any fucking sense. There's no logical way that he could have ever committed any of those murders and no one will listen to him!

But he keeps his jaw locked and his gaze averted. He wants to scream. He can feel the muscles in his arms and the bones in his hands aching for a release that only violence can bring. Anger is red hot, brimming at his mouth, ready to spill over. For a second he's afraid he'll vomit.

"You should cope however you see fit, Will."

"So, what? I'll just be stuck in this never ending loop of suicide attempts and 'coping' before someone figures out what you're doing? I'll just be stuck in a cell or a hospital bed until I _die_? Hannibal, your plan isn't as foolproof as you think."

"Jack Crawford is too dense to notice, and you're too guilty to listen to."

"So I'm stuck, is that what you think?"

"In all manner of the word, yes."

Will is aware of the overwhelming urge to shut up, like part of him is trying to force his mouth closed when he's trying to speak. But he has so much to say! Briefly, he's forced to fight with himself to form words.

"I refuse."

"What?"

Will feels like he has to pull his words out of the tar weighing his brain down just to form a sentence. "T-to be stuck like this, I refuse. I don't want this."

Hannibal sighs then leans forward on his chair to come eye to eye with Will, who looks away. "You'll have to adjust to this, Will; this is your life now."

The problem with Will is that, given the right words, he will fizzle and fade and be a generally boring conversationalist and instead turn into an interesting conversational piece between psychiatrists. Hannibal would much rather have him as a conversationalist rather than the latter. He views him like a computer or a laptop that is intelligent enough to speak back to him, but not smart enough to _really_ talk back to him. He's an AI almost. But we all know that computers have fuzzy logic, and we all know that computers are the best at working through the input given until they work out a pattern. Will Graham's battery is draining quickly and Hannibal can't find the charger.


End file.
